


And I thank you for not leaving in the night (and at least saying goodbye and letting me have my dignity right)

by toitsu



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bilbo likes to believe Frodo is their child, No mpreg, Unrequited Love, spoilers for those who haven't read the book?, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toitsu/pseuds/toitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is not a father of the spirit of this child you claim as your own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I thank you for not leaving in the night (and at least saying goodbye and letting me have my dignity right)

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing many prompts on Hobbit kink meme about Frodo being Bilbo's and Thorin's son...well I got this idea and I completely ruined that notion, I guess
> 
> Title from a song 'Lakefront property' by Astronautalis

i.

 

He is not a father of the spirit of this child you claim as your own. Even had he lived – had he married, had he fathered sons and daughters – you don't think any child of his would smile so gently, dream so sweetly of lands beyond borders of home.

 

No child of his would would look up to you and eagerly demand _tell me more about elves, uncle, tell me about dragons._

ii.

 

No child of his would be yours to claim as well.

 

iii.

 

But wistful thinking has never done you any good, so you don't dwell on 'might've been's and 'what if's and thousand different things you might have done to change what happened; in the end you are still back in Bag End and he is resting on the cold stones of his ancestral home, forever dead, and with him sleep all the things that will never be.

 

iv.

 

(You can't help dreaming – silver streaks in his hair, fur on his shoulders; all his flaws and imperfections and smell of blood as he laid dying)

 

(He will forever sing, illuminated by fire in your living room; the words and notes and his voice, reverberating forever in that small room, forever forever forever)

 

v.

 

Frodo doesn't resemble him in the least, with his gentle manners and wide eyed innocence, with his love for books and ethereal beings and things that don't sparkle and shine. There is nothing of Thorin you might find in him even if you spend years and years weaving delusions around.

 

Frodo knows of loss, but nothing of despair; of unforgiving weight of vengeance, of losing anchor and being swept up in a storm, years and years of suffering to build something to hold onto and being unable to because your heart yearned for things burnt and turned to ash.

 

(And yet, and yet you want to braid his dark hair; when the shadows touch his eyes and they turn the exact shade of blue as Thorin's)

 

vi.

 

The truth is: you have never been lovers.

 

vii.

 

You cannot pretend that Frodo is the child of his spirit and your blood, but sometimes, oh sometimes you _yearn,_ dream of another life – where he isn't the bitter, hurt shell of what he might have been, where he laughs more freely, where dragons never happen. You can't imagine him as being a truly gentle soul, but he could've been more – relaxed, yes, relaxed.

 

You can't imagine him settling down in Shire with you (even were he willing to settle down with _you_ ), but maybe, maybe you could've – _would've_ – stayed in the mountain with him, and watched over Fili and Kili and – but they too lay dead and cold and what use, what use is the daydreaming when the reality is harsh and facts remain – dead, dead, forever dead.

 

viii.

 

But you watched him and watched him and Balin's words echoed, yes, _here's the one I could follow_ and you'd have given up your own life, anything, if only you could've saved him.

 

ix.

 

Frodo is not the child of his spirit and is barely of your blood, but on your bad days you sit by the hearth and his song echoes, forever trapped in the walls, forever forever forever and you wish that that night had never ended.

 

x.

 

And perhaps in some other life, it never did.


End file.
